


Five Times The World Makes Sense To Angel (Not)

by landrews



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:45:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landrews/pseuds/landrews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five stories, each one written from one dominant sense, and all of them reflecting a moment when Angel doesn't understand his world and what happens in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times The World Makes Sense To Angel (Not)

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through S5
> 
> Canon pairings. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine! Whedon's, Greenwalt's, Mutant Enemy's, ect.
> 
> A/N: For the August 2008 Lynnvitational, thanks, lynnenne!

 

_**1.** _

Angel's trudging along the sewer, not even sure of his location since he's mindlessly back-tracking his own scent and that of the Piklor, whose blood is now ruining yet another pair of his boots, when he hears the transcendent sound of glory, young voices raised in the unmistakable reverence of a hymn that spins him wildly into memory. His feet stutter and he stumbles to a stop. 

After a long moment, as the singing voices echo in tandem, in his ears and in his head, he leans into the damp block that curves up and into the arch of the ceiling above him and lets it support him as he eases down. He thinks he'll crouch, listen to the children a bit, but as he sinks, his side spasms and he rocks over with it, dropping the bundle of his jacket wrapped around his gory broadsword as he reaches to staunch his own flowing blood and lands flat on his ass. He groans, feeling the seep of dirty water into the seat of his pants, and presses his fingers along his ribs, feeling for the edges of his skin and how far apart they might be. Wider than his hand, which is bad, but won't kill him. He gurgles with amusement at the thought.

If only, he thinks, and sobers instantly.

The voices above and those inside both pause. Unaccompanied, barely audible, the song builds itself again, climbing the lattice of his existence and soars as the choirs' voices join one onto the other. He closes his eyes and sees into the past, feels the lift of Angelus's heart as he managed to steal three tender singers before the chorus faltered. 

His ear drums thrum with the vibration of their fear, with the way the holy, echoing tones of the Ave Maria slid up the scale. Their screams engulfed him and he basked in the heated rush of panic. He took two more as the small cathedral emptied, and then laid all five in pious pose before the altar. The priests stood in the nave, watching. As he retreated, they advanced, step by step. He forced them into a crude dance, stepping forward once, twice, to watch them step back, before he finally turned his back on them and walked away.

The song fades above him and he rouses, aware he is falling into a stupor. He can taste the blood of the boys on his tongue. He shakes his head and straightens, licking his dry lips. But they are wet. It is only his own blood, seeping down his slashed cheek and onto his lips. Relief courses through him. A deep melodious voice accompanies the slow drip of water further down the pipe. Angels sighs, content to simply sit and bleed.

In a while he'll stagger on. By the time he hits the Hyperion, he's sure he'll be nearly undamaged, in need of a shower and a meal, but whole. On the outside. He stretches his legs full length in front of him. For just a little while.

The voice above clarifies as his thoughts slow. “... handmaid of the Lord.”

“Be it unto me according to thy Word,” Angel hears himself whisper in response. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.” The Latin spills off his tongue. 'Hail, Mary, full of grace,' he says, 'the lord is with you; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death. Amen.'

The surrounding concrete brings him only the words, “...Word.... flesh,” but Angel knows the verse. 'And the Word was made flesh.'

“And dwelt among us,” he responds along with the faint rumble that is the church's obviously small congregation. He pictures them above him, unaware there is a real demon reciting along with them, finding comfort in the ancient rote of verse and response.

Halfway through breathing out the Hail Mary again, he hears the splash step of someone approaching and stops. He draws his legs up and scoops his jacket closer, his hand closing on the handle of his sword.

A flashlight beam appears from around the bend and Wesley cautiously follows it. “Angel,” he says when he sees him, and hurries forward.

Angel sinks back again. 

Wesley fusses over him, shining the beam on his injuries after handing him a thermos full of blood, telling him they were worried, he's been gone too long. Asking him about the outcome of his hunt. Angel doesn't answer.

He listens to the service above. He lets Wesley poke at his ribs . When Wesley sits back on his heels, Angel closes his eyes so he doesn't have to watch Wesley watch him drink from the thermos. He concentrates on the tone of the church bell ringing down onto him and tries not to swallow too fast or too hard.

“The Angelus,” Wesley says, as the bell's ninth peal fades away.

Angel lowers the empty thermos. 

Wesley's eyes are dark on his, intent. “She was brutally clever.”

“She was,” Angel agrees.

“You aren't that incarnation anymore,” Wesley says standing. He extends his hand to help Angel to his feet. Angel takes it.

Wesley's hand is warm and solid in his. 

He carries the thermos. Wesley takes the flashlight and the bundled sword. 

“Dear Lord,” Wesley says, before they've made ten feet. “Did you fall in a cistern?”

Angel winces, knowing Wesley's clothes will have to be thrown out with his own. “The Pikor's blood. It kinda... gushed.”

“Like explosion gush or streaming gush? Did you go for his throat or....”

Angel thinks, Holy Mary, Mother of God, thank you. Thank you for praying for me. 

 

_**2.**_

He sees her lithe body turn and her blonde hair swing over one shoulder and feels faint, his thin blood rushing forth without purpose; a swirl that engulfs the little bit of strength he can find still hiding deep inside him and swallows it in hope. 

But it is not her. She turns and her nose is all wrong and her eyes are slits, and her lips... they are not rounded and full, not ripe and waiting. They're thin and cruel and her brows slant down and a shriek emerges from her that sends Angel scuttling back into the shadows.

He is reminded of this, his terror, in the aftermath of regaining his soul; feels it rising in him again when he sees her strolling down a cracked, crowded sidewalk in the balm of an early LA evening. It is not possible. 

He rushes forward, trying to catch her scent, and can't. The heat of the crowd surrounds him. Still, there is a familiarity of motion there, one that yet lingers in his most vivid dreams- the flow of her languid muscles as she strolls with him, sated and warm. There is her coloring, the bright sheen and silk fall of her hair, her unmarked skin, as white as the milk she bathed in. But the skin is wrong, under the stret lights, he can see a faint apricot tinge along her arms. Sun kissed. He can't be sure.

Angel pursues her through the crowd that ebbs and flows and keeps him from her. He doesn't trust his eyes. When he loses her, he stops dead. Lets the crowd part and avoid him. He recalls and compares her walk, the length of her stride, the roll of her hips, the glide of her shoulders and the lift of her head. It is her.

Darla. Returned from dust.

He knows it. 

 

_**3.**_

He loves the salty tang of his son. Cordy is musk and citrus. He knows her skin, beneath the coating she layers it in, her soap, her moisturizer, the organic, shade raised roast she favors at The Coffee Bean. Connor and Cordy don't work together. His lip curls upon itself as he closes his office door in distaste.

He pours a cheap whiskey, one he keeps for shoring up the occasional walk-in until they can spit out their story of woe. The sharp fumes fill his nose. He lifts the glass, wondering if another paying client will ever darken his dooryard again. Probably not. His world, never routine at best, has been shifting from under his feet like an out-of-control kaleidoscope ever since Whistler caught him, hook, line and sinker.

The whiskey burns his throat and makes his eyes and nose run. He sniffs, clearing his sinuses, and inhales the whiskey fumes deeply before quaffing the remainder. He snags a Sanskrit book on Demonology and then settles behind his desk, sinking deep into his chair. He spent money on it, cashed in a good gold coin, just so that he could appreciate the fine Italian leather every time he sat. He does that now, and then shifts. Bounces a time or two. The scent rises and envelops him. There, that should do, he thinks. 

But just to be sure, to really wash the stink of betrayal and just plain wrong from his presence, he opens the book. It is bound in turtle hide. The pages were pressed from something like sea oats. There are little grains still embedded in them, the fading ink of the text soaked long ago into each bump and imperfection. He riffles the pages and then lets them fall open at midpoint, leans forward, and buries his face against them. It reeks of time and dust. There is only the faintest whiff of the sea.

His stomach turns and he stands.

Outside, Cordy laughs. They are all still talking about the Zombies. He hears Gavin's name. Lilah's. He sinks back down, feeling again the rush of love that broke his heart as he hugged his son at Wolfram and Hart, even with Cordy written large on him. It makes his legs weak. He can not erase the picture of them together, fire falling from the sky. It is her, but not her. A shuttered Cordy. Frowning, he fingers the book, walking the pages closed, and he lets his brain surf. She's changed, certainly. She was a higher being, returned broken. What is she now?

Gunn is standing nearest his door, but he feels her coming, focuses his attention on the door as she turns the knob. Her beat is fast. She is excited, but not afraid. The draught of air as the door swings in brings her into him again, assaults his senses. There is something there that is not her and is not Connor, but he can't identify it. All he knows is that he has to clench his jaw to keep from hurting her.

He does not want to hurt her. 

He wants to make her afraid of him. 

He wants to smell her fear.

He waits for her to make the first move.

She closes the door, and turns to him, a smile on her face.

_**4.** _

When he kisses Nina the first time and it deepens, mouths open and questing, he doesn't expect the taste of blood that lingers along her tongue. After the first flush of surprise, he pulls her closer. They feed her, of course, during her stay in the cell downstairs, but still, he didn't think... and he stops thinking altogether then and simply kisses her thoroughly before extracting himself from the situation as gracefully and soon as possible.

When he visions a few nights later, he bolts from sleep, the taste of Cordelia in his mouth. Sweating, he runs his tongue over his teeth, and over his lips. Her taste is desire and longing, the last kiss he shared with her. A true kiss, one they both wanted. 

He has to close his eyes and press his fingers to the bridge of his nose to stop the tears welling up. He searches through the images of the vision, lets the accompanying emotion swell and rides them, searching for his purpose, sorting his options. He lays still, deciding what he knows for sure and how to find out the rest. Who he can trust.

Hours later, the sun rises, laying stripes over his chest through the protective glass he has already learned to take for granted. His thoughts turn to who he can protect and Nina is there, tucking her hair behind her hair, her smile wide as she leans forward and casually kisses him. As casually as Buffy used to do. He will not think of her. He concentrates and pulls up the flavor of Nina's mouth, Nina's hand against his chest. 

Angel rolls over onto his belly, tightens his body, and then relaxes inch by deliberate inch, from his fingers all the way to his toes, and drifts. He has already decided to bed her as much as possible before sending her away. One, he wants to, and two, he needs to. It has become a part of his battle plan. 

Her skin is smooth and smoky, oaky, like an aged cognac. There is the hint of mushroom, of leaf litter, of the forest and the secrets hidden there. It is intoxicating. He wonders what she tastes like when she comes. Unbidden, the taste of Buffy rises on his tongue and he groans, his languid arousal hardens as she floods his mouth. He rocks his pelvis once into the mattress and gives himself over to her, to the flavors that he can not taste, but that remain so sharply in his senses. 

Buffy is a plum, bitter and dark on first taste, with the explosive sweet hidden inside- her mouth, her skin, her body, her blood. Elusive traces he could almost taste, driving him to sample her again, and again. He would have almost been content to only ever nuzzle and kiss and lap at her, until he tasted her in full human overdrive.

Chocolate and mint. Cherries. The opulent black currents and vanilla of the wine he poured into her navel and licked off her labia. Buffy herself, opened to him, sweeter than he had ever imagined in all his naïve and patient explorations of her flesh while they were still blessed with ignorance of his curse. 

That curse that he took back, accepted once again. He can never taste Buffy again and not desire all of her. 

He sighs and sits up, flinging the bed sheet back. Cordy's still on his tongue and lips. He knows the taste he calls 'desire', but he can't remember why. He can't separate the flavors of it into separate strands the way he can the smell. He thinks of Cordy's arms around him. Desire is orange blossoms and cardamon and ale. But she tasted like Cherry chapstick and blue skies.

He'll bed Nina. He'll nick her tongue and suck her clit and savor the shadows of her essence. He'll bury himself in her and he'll want more. 

Angel stands and stalks to the shower. He is coming to his end and he is glad of it. He twists the hot water on full and waits for the steam to envelop him. 

He wishes he had taken his chance to taste Buffy in full flavor overdrive every day until death did them part.

 

_**5.**_

He huddles in the ruins of an arched doorway. It is all that is left of the building it once adorned. A hot wind hurtles rain at his cheek, as hard as lead pellets. He turns his face away and tucks his chin into the battered leather coat that is more talisman than protection. The wind is relentless. It howls and tugs at his wet hair. Whips it across his eyes and bares his neck to the onslaught.

Angel sees Buffy's bare neck as he brushes her soaked blonde hair from it and lets his lips brush the chamois soft skin there. Her pulse thumps under the pressure of his tongue. She turns and tugs at his wet clothes, as ineffectively as the wind does, until he pulls his shirt over his head and presses his chilled chest against the burning heat of her back. 

Wrapping his arms around her, he fumbles at the slippery button on her slacks, having to work to twist it from the wet fabric of her slacks. She leans back into him, rolling her head into the crook of his shoulder and tilts her face to his. Her mouth opens as the button comes free and it's only natural to kiss her. Slick, slide of her hot tongue on his. 

Her muscles under his hands are springy with her coiled strength. She pushes at him, pulls him in, takes his every caress, his every stroke, and turns it back on him. She closes her fingers and her velvet mouth and makes him believe in her. Makes him believe in himself. He draws her up his body, and rolls them over, so he's on top. She's both firm and yielding beneath him. He surges forward... 

Something wind-borne whirls into his back and sticks there, thrashing him, ripping at the back of his neck and ears. He flails at it, turning in small circles and the wind snatches it away again. Standing with his hands folded over the welts and scratches, Angel watches the small tumbleweed disappear into the wasteland of east LA. Ice pebbles join the rain beating at his face. His visibility is only twenty yards, but under a quarter moon, even without the storm, there would not be much to see.

Not like standing on the roof of the Hyperion, the city lights spread out below him to the horizon. Even standing on the highest ground in ten miles, the jagged heap of stone he thinks might have been a multi-story building seventy years ago, no more than thirty or forty scattered lights shine on a clear night. 

If he were standing at the Hyperion, Cordelia would come to him. He'd feel her energy lapping against his before she was halfway across the lobby. He stares into the dark mouth of the storm and feels Cordy's energy become a wake and then a tide that merges into his and warms him up, but he doesn't turn. He feels her breath on his laced hands, and then her fingers threading between his and she lifts them so that her breath falls upon his neck as she assesses the extent of his damage.

She comes around him, so close her shoulder traces the contours of his own. Leading him, she takes him to the round settee and sits him down. With the lightest of touches, the very tips of her fingers, she   
explores his wounds, follows the curves of his skull, onto his jaw bone, over his cheekbones. Butterfly wings across his closed eyes, onto his temples, down. Her thumbs make his lips tingle. She makes him tremble as he waits.

And then there's the warm cloth that wipes his blood away, the quick sting of alcohol, the reward of her cool breath as she blows on him. Her hands are strong. She prods at him, checking for anything lodged inside him. Tendrils of pain curl out from his neck, worm into his upper back, under his scapulas and over his collarbone, reach and stretch to push down into his chest. There is plenty lodged inside him that needs plucking out. 

Her hands smooth cream over his neck, and out onto his shoulders. He feels that she is smoothing his skin back down over his frame. Pressing her young, supple hands into him, she weights down all that wants out of him- sinks it deep inside him so that he can think again.

He can't think anymore, with the wind pummeling him. It lifts and pries and tries to free the worst in him. He turns and turns and turns again in its rippling embrace. 

He needs someone to touch him.

He needs someone to touch.

Hail sweeps in on the furious, scorching wind, lashing at his ducked head, bruising his face, tearing his lips. Angel turns again, puts his back to the hail, and to the wasteland he can't fix. 

The storm shoves at him. Step by step, it drives him toward the sunrise, toward humanity.

 


End file.
